It's A Wheelderful Life
by Bubble Wrapped Kitty
Summary: After a particularly rough day, Artie Abrams declares, "Sometimes I wish I'd never been born." And there's one particular barking homeless person who's only too willing to grant that wish for him. Glee-ified version of "It's A Wonderful Life."
1. Just One of Those Days

AN: Hey everyone, this is just a little idea I had while watching that holiday classic, "It's a Wonderful Life," and it would not leave me alone until I started writing. So yes, I actually am going to be crazy enough to attempt it. My intention is to hopefully have this entire thing written and published before Christmas, (my vacation's started today so I should hopefully have the time) so we'll see how well that works. Also, to my No Air readers, don't fret, I'm not giving up. I'll be writing both of these stories side-by-side.

Disclaimer: I do not owe Glee, or the characters that are portrayed here. Nor do I own the plotline, which has been jacked and then face-lifted from "It's a Wonderful Life."

So without further ado, a classic tale that's been Glee-ified for your (hopeful) entertainment. Happy Holidays, FanFiction Gleeks!

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Chapter 1 – Just One of Those Days

It's not very often that I completely lose it. I pride myself on being a very level-headed person. No matter how badly things get, my optimism gets me through it until things calm down and feel normal again. Almost any day I can take everything and let it roll off my shoulders, whether those things are names, jeers, or ice-cold syrupy drinks.

Today has _not_ been one of those days.

It starts off with me waking up late. In my haste to get up and get ready for school, I get a little reckless with my balance and wind up slipping off the bed and face-planting on the floor. Consequently breaking my glasses, I might add, and giving myself a pretty horrendous bloody nose. Once I manage to recover from that, I find my spare glasses only to realize they have a scratch in the lens. Of course. I dress, all the while daunted by that ghostly white line hovering over my vision, and leave for school ten minutes after the first bell has rung.

I'm almost a half hour late for my first period by the time I get my things from my locker (on which someone managed to break my lock off and replace it backwards so it takes me six tries to get the numbers put in correctly because I can't actually see them) and because of it I've missed half the lesson. My teacher so graciously gives me extra homework to help me get caught up.

In third period, my teacher springs a pop quiz on us (on the reading I forgot to even look at) and I know that my half-assed invented answers are not going to sit well with my grades. To make things better, after class I get my first daily slushie bath. Orange, possibly my least favorite slushie flavor. I'm late to my fourth hour as I spend half the class washing myself off as best as I can in the bathroom. My fourth hour teacher decides to call attention to the fact that I enter late, (has she never heard of leniency on the handicapped?) and the jock who slushied me happens to be sitting in the row next to me, sniggering. Yes, sniggering. That's the only way to describe the noise he's making.

By the time we finally get to lunch, my stomach is practically eating itself. My rush meant I didn't get to eat breakfast, and to make matters better I realize I've also forgotten to make myself a lunch. And I left my wallet at home. Tina, Mercedes, and Kurt all pitch in parts of their lunches to feed me, but that only adds up to a carton of milk, a bruised apple, a few bites of the strange soupy whatever they served as an entree, and half of Tina's cookie.

Between sixth and seventh period is a typical game of 'tape the cripple's wheels together' that leaves me awkwardly bent over and twisted at wholly unnatural angles while trying to cut the tape with my house keys. Finn winds up rescuing me from that one, which doesn't really improve my mood much. I'm starting to get sick of being rescued by Finn Hudson.

My resentment for the quarterback is only strengthened in Glee practice when Mr. Schuester starts handing out sheet music for the Christmas concert. Predictably, every good piece goes to Finn, and I get dropped with all the partial sections and second-best parts and the occasional guitar bit. Normally this doesn't bother me, but today as Finn scrapes awkwardly through his first run at _Baby It's Cold Outside_ I can't help but wonder if that would be me if I weren't in a wheelchair. I sound a lot more Dean Martin than he does.

At the end of Glee I'm so distracted that I leave without waiting for Tina. Everyone else is chatting about plans for the Winter Ball and I don't want to hear about it. My chair means the school dances everyone gets excited about are null-and-void for me. Even if I decided to go to one, I'd be sitting solo by the wall. No girl wants to spend her evening standing off to the side with Wheelchair Kid while there are dances to be had with able-bodied guys.

I'm out in the parking lot when I realize that I've left behind Tina, who I usually go home from school with. When I turn back to go find her, I find my way blocked by a solid wall of letterman jackets. I don't even hear what sort of idiotic insults they toss my way this time, and a few seconds later I'm dripping in another slushie. I've changed my mind; lime is my least favorite.

The lead jock, some wrestling team punk I've surprisingly never had the pleasure to be introduced to, gets down in my face, taunting me. I'm practically shaking with the pent-up frustration of this day from hell, when something he says actually breaks through the pounding in my ears. "Maybe if you weren't a cripple, your stuttering emo tramp might actually be willing to lay you."

For a second, one fleeting second, everything in the world goes perfectly still and white. And then I actually physically feel my anger snap. My world whips into super speed as I lash out and my fist connects with a solid jaw. I feel pain ricochet through my hand and up into my arm, and the wrestler lets out a bellow as he staggers back, clutching his bleeding lip.

As refreshing as it feels to finally stand up for myself, reality crashes down on me pretty fast. I, Artie Abrams, Wheelchair Kid, just decked a wrestler who happens to be backed up by three other cronies. The odds are not even close to in my favor on this one unless a bazooka happens to magically appear in my hands. Which it doesn't. And in less than five minutes I've been stripped down to just my jeans and duct taped to the flag pole. I would like to remind you at this point that it's December.

I refuse to cry, but it's difficult. Besides the fact that I'm half-naked and taped to a freezing metal pole in the winter, I'm also still coated in slushie, which does nothing for the 'freezing' aspect of this situation. I can already feel the bruises forming on my arms where the jocks grabbed me, as well as on my torso where Wrestling Jerk exacted his revenge for his throbbing jaw. And I'm pretty sure I broke a finger punching him, judging by the way my hand is practically screaming at me.

I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the pole limply. Calling for help isn't going to do me any good because the idiots actually had enough forethought to tape my mouth shut too. All I can do is wait until someone walks by with enough heart to help me out, and hope it's before my skin turns blue.

"Artie?"

I'm not sure exactly how long I've been hanging here, but I'm shivering like crazy when I finally hear a familiar voice. _God, why did it have to be her?_ I feel hands on my arms and I open my eyes to a blur of black and blue. "Artie, oh my God."

Tina kneels down, and I have to look down to figure out that she's sawing at the tape around my legs. My face is burning with shame. I'm being rescued by the girl I'm in love with, the one that I should be protecting, not the other way around. There is absolutely no justice in the world for the cripples.

After she's finished with the tape on my legs, she moves up to the ring around my stomach. With that one cut my body is sagging pretty heavily against the tape around my shoulders and she has to hold me up awkwardly with her own body as she cuts through the last bits of tape. I slump uselessly against her when she's done, and I can only say it's a miracle that she somehow manages to get us both to the ground without anyone being seriously crushed.

"Are you okay?" Tina asks, even though I can't actually answer yet because I'm still trying to undo the tape that's looped around my face. She pushes my hands out of the way and uses her fingernails to pry it off, and I wince as the last layer peels off my mouth, leaving it feeling red and raw. Not to mention I think it tore out half the hair at the back of my neck.

I ignore her question as I tear off the cut tape that's still clinging to my body. Ouch, by the way. Tina vanishes from my side while I'm doing it, and when she returns she's got my chair. "What happened, Artie?" she asks and I can hear the panic in her voice as she puts on my chair brakes.

"The usual," I say and I can't help the bitterness in my voice. I'm shaking with a blend of cold and anger, so much that it's almost difficult to haul myself up into my chair. "The jocks doled out their punishment for my crime of existing."

"Where are your clothes?" she asks. I only just realize she's staring at my bare chest and I cross my arms, covering myself as well as I can and trying to retain what little of my body heat I have left. She stands up and starts walking a large circle around where we are. When she comes back she's carrying my socks and undershirt. She holds them out to me and I take them, frowning. Once I've tugged on my shirt I look down and see that she's trying to help my feet into the socks.

"I've got it," I say abruptly, bending over and brushing her hands away, pulling on my socks myself.

"I'm just trying to help," she says quietly and I feel a twinge of guilt that only makes me angrier, although now that anger is directed inward.

"Well you don't need to," I mutter back and Tina withdraws. Why am I such an idiot? It's not her fault I'm like this. It's not her fault I'm not capable of defending myself, or even properly dressing myself. It's not her fault I am the target of every single Neanderthal-esque being in this stupid school. It's mine, and mine alone, for being like this.

"Here," she says and I see her holding out her hoodie. For a moment I almost turn it down, but then she presses it firmly into my arms. "Artie, you're going to turn into an icicle, put on the hoodie," she snaps. My chest pulses rapidly. What is she yelling at me for? Does she think I wanted to be strapped to an icy pole in nothing but my pants? I pull the hoodie over my head roughly, feeling the warmth of it against my skin for a second, before looking up at her. She is frowning, but that's not anger in her eyes. It's sadness. And worry. And pity.

"Quit looking at me like that!" I shout before I even realize what I'm doing. "I am so sick of people looking at me like that. I can't take this anymore. I don't want to live like this. I'm done with other people having to go out of their way to help me, and protect me, and do everything for me that I'm too crippled to do myself. I'm sick of this. I wish I'd never been in that stupid wreck! Hell, I wish I'd never been born!"

Tina pulls back again and I can see something like fear in her eyes. Furious with her and the world and myself, I turn my chair and roll off as quickly as I can. My hand is protesting, stinging pains shooting through it from the swollen finger, but I just use that pain as energy to keep going.

I'm not heading for home. I don't know where I'll head, so long as it's not home where I'll have to deal with this exact same song-and-dance from my parents. My overly-protective parents who tear themselves apart inside every time they look at my chair and see how hard things are for me. There's another pair of people who are suffering because of me. Just like my brother, who gave up on his college scholarship in baseball because that was always my dream and he refused to follow it without me, no matter how much he wanted. He could have played pro. Because of me, he's a real estate agent.

Life would have been so much better for everyone if I wasn't around. My parents wouldn't have to sacrifice so much, make so many adjustments to their lives just to accommodate me. My brother would be a star, a hero to little kids just like he's always wanted. My mom wouldn't have that survivor's guilt that leaves her secretly crying at night when she thinks I can't hear. Tina wouldn't have to deal with the jokes about being a booty call for the cripple, or spend her afternoon hunting down my chair every time the jocks relieve me of it.

There's never been a time in my life, not even right after the accident, where I've wished that things had turned out differently more than I do right now.

"Wishin' for a differ'nt life is a dangerous thing, lad."

I twitch in surprise, glancing around. I'm in front of the city library, the street surprisingly empty for the middle of the afternoon. The only other person is a mangy heap of brown, a homeless man clutching a scotch bottle and sitting on the bottom step of the library. He grins at me, a smile that's only got half its teeth and none of them a color they should be. His eyes are vaguely cross-eyed. I know who he is, everyone in town does; Patches.

"What do you mean?" I ask nervously. My instincts are telling me to just roll the hell outta here, but the fact that what he said was so closely linked to what I was thinking has me rooted to the spot.

"You don't wanna go wishin' for a new life, kiddo, you really don't," Patches says in a wheezy voice that sounds full of amusement. "Trust me, it ne'er works out the way yer thinkin' it might."

"You mean making it so everyone I care about doesn't have to spend all their time rearranging their lives just so I can fit in it?" I ask bitterly. "I'm not sure how that would be a bad thing."

Patches laughs, a weird noise that whistles out between his teeth. "You wanna find out?" he asks, raising an eyebrow that I almost can't see through the dirtiness of his skin.

"What?" I ask, completely sidelined by this question.

Patches doesn't answer me as his eyes fix on a red-haired woman walking toward the library. Once she reaches the steps he lets out a loud bark, and continues to bark at her until she's past the library and walking away, glancing back over her shoulder anxiously.

"I mean you wanna find out how happy that fant'sy world o' yers is?" Patches elaborates as if there'd been no interruption. I feel my heart leap in my chest at the mere possibility, no matter how ridiculous his offer is. Apparently some of it shows on my face because he grins. "Alright, then, let's do this."

"What do you - ?" He stands up and walks around behind me. Before I even have the time to grab my wheels, he seizes the handle of my chair with one hand and shoves me hard in the back with the other. I yell in surprise as I feel my body slide off the chair and I slump to the sidewalk, not even having the time to throw my arms up to catch myself. The last thing I know is a strange, swooping feeling in my stomach and a split second later my head hits the concrete and I'm out.


	2. A Brand New Reality

Chapter 2 – A Brand New Reality

My head is throbbing. It sort of feels like my heart is beating against the inside my skull, right behind my forehead. As I try to shift, the pounding gets worse and I groan.

"Easy there, kid." I feel a hand on my shoulder and the unfamiliar voice is close to my face, hot breath brushing over my face and smelling distinctly like Puck does the morning after a party. I wrinkle my nose. Alcohol. "Sorry 'bout that, the switch di'n't happen s'fast as I thought. Thought you might least have the brains to guard your head instead o' lettin' it crack on the sidewalk like an egg."

"What?" I grumble out in confusion. I manage to force my eyes open and there's a big brown thing hovering right over me. I can't help the startled yelp that escapes me as I try to draw back, but the only result this gets is my head starts throbbing worse again.

The figure above me moves back and I get a glimpse of cloudy gray sky. I put my hand onto my face to adjust my glasses, but they aren't there. Then how on earth can I see things so distinctly? Groaning, I push myself up with my elbows until I'm sitting up.

I'm sitting on the bottom step of the library and when I look sideways Patches the homeless guy is perched next to me, idly tracing his finger around the neck of his bottle while he watches me. He grins and suddenly everything comes rushing back to me, so quickly that it feels like all of the memories are being thrown at my head. I gasp and curl in on myself at the pain.

Being late; the bloody nose and broken glasses; the slushies; lunch; teachers; glee practice; the winter ball; the wrestling jocks; the anger; the flag pole; Tina's rescue; yelling at her; the library; wishing for a different life; Patches pushing me; hitting the concrete.

When the attack of the memories fades, I'm left shuddering from the intensity. I can feel my heart hammering painfully hard in my chest and I'm panting. It takes me a minute before I can look up and over at Patches, and I glare at him. "What'd you shove me for?"

Patches takes a swallow of his drink before he answers me. "Had to," he says simply. "On'y way to get you here."

"Here?" I ask, glancing around again. "What'd you mean? We're still at the library. I haven't _gone_ anywhere. Unless you mean moving me from my chair to this step, in which case I could have done that on my own without you trying to crush my skull."

"Relax, yer skull ain't cracked," Patches says, rolling his eyes. "And you is in a differ'nt place. I sent yeh where yeh wanted to go."

I still have no idea what he's talking about, so I look around again to see if maybe there's some clue as to what he means. As I'm looking, I notice that my legs, stretched out awkwardly in front of me, are clad in white. Okay, I definitely was not wearing that before. Looking closer over myself, I take in my outfit; jeans, sneakers, buttondown shirt, sweater vest, fingerless gloves. And all of it is pure white.

"What the –?"

"Don' ask me, kid, you picked it," Patches says with a laugh. "Yeh dress like my gramps did."

"I did not pick these clothes," I say defensively. "I was wearing blue jeans. And Tina's hoodie."

"Tina?" Patches asks and snorts into his bottle so it makes a low whistling noise. "You was wearing a girl sweater? Oh boy, you gots more problems than I thought."

"I was definitely not wearing this though," I say, pointing at myself. I'm starting to get more than just a little freaked out now. Some creepy homeless guy shoves me out of my chair and then I wake up in different clothes. You can't tell me that doesn't sound wrong seven ways to Sunday. "I don't even _own_ a pair of white jeans."

Patches just laughs again. "In this world, yeh don' own nothin'."

"What?" I'm once again caught off guard by his random statement. "This world? What is that supposed to mean?"

"The world yeh wanted to go to," Patches says in exasperation. "Jiminy Christmas, kid, how many times I gotta tell you that? Yer denser 'an a fence post."

Okay, the crazy person is trying to tell me I'm stupid. I'm really not so happy with that. I can feel myself sliding on the step and I reach down to grab my leg and pull it back up, but the moment my hand touches my knee I flinch back like I've been shocked.

"What the 'ell's wrong now?" Patches asks.

I don't answer, staring at my leg in awe. Tentatively, I reach out my hand and push my palm against my knee again. A thrill of surprise shoots through me because I can _feel_ it. Not just in my hand, I mean my knee can feel the curve of my palm over my kneecap and there's a warmth at every place my hand is making contact.

Curious, I flex the muscles and watch as my leg moves as easily as if it had always been doing it. I curl my toes, bend and straighten first my right leg and then the left, all the while just staring at my suddenly animate limbs.

"Yeh gonna spend all day doin' that?" Patches' question manages to pull me back to reality a little bit.

"I'm not – I can feel – " I trail off, still too stunned to form a coherent sentence. Unable to contain myself any longer, I arrange my legs underneath me, take a deep breath, and push. It's almost too easy how my body rises until my legs are fully extended. I'm _standing_.

Turning back to face Patches, an incredulous smile breaks across my face. "I'm not paralyzed."

"Well o' course yeh ain't," Patches says like it's the most obvious thing ever. "Yeh don' exist."

If you ever want to know a good way to take a pin to someone's happy bubble, that'll do it. I feel my mouth fall open as I stare at him.

"How – I don't – what?"

Patches rolls his eyes and lets out a heavy sigh. "You ain't so smart, are yeh?" he asks, raising an eyebrow at me. He takes a swallow of his drink and then mutters, "I'm gonna need me 'nother bottle for this 'un." I just keep watching him and finally he looks back up at me. "I said, yeh don' exist. Jus' like yeh wished fer."

"I did not," I say instinctively. Then the memory comes to the surface again; yelling at Tina and telling her I wished I'd never been born; telling the stupid hobo that everyone's lives would be easier without me in them. Dear God, I really had wished that.

But it doesn't matter that I wished it, because it couldn't possibly happen. There's just no way that some drunk homeless guy could magic us into a world where I never existed. Things like that don't happen in the real world. It's illogical. Am I hallucinating? Maybe Patches slipped me something, and I'm high or stoned or drunk or – something. All I know is that there's no way I'm falling for this story.

Turning away from him, I take a step and freeze. I took a step. I'm walking. Even though I've been paralyzed for eight years, I'm now magically up and walking around as if nothing ever happened to me. As if I'd never been in that accident. As if I'd never been paralyzed. If I can somehow be walking again, then is it that far-fetched that I've also been taken to some world where I haven't been born?

"Finally got there, have yeh?" Patches asks from behind me. When I look back at him he toasts me with his bottle and takes a swallow.

"Who are you?" I ask, staring at him in disbelief. If all of this stuff he's telling me is true, then there is no way he's just some crazy hobo.

Patches grins at me. "Yeh wouldn' believe me if I told yeh," he says and winks. "Jus' call me Patches, it's wha' they all do."

"Right," I say uncertainly. I look around myself again, taking in the sight of downtown Lima. Everything looks exactly like it always has. What did I expect, that just because I wasn't alive that the whole world would look different? I berate myself for even thinking that. It's not like this is some Saturday morning Christmas special or something, where the absence of one person leaves the world in chaos and destruction. It's stupid to even think that.

Am I really non-existent? I'm still not fully sure that I want to believe this story yet, despite the fact that I'm pacing up and down while thinking about it. Pacing, now there's a tension reliever I've never really gotten to experience before. The action of moving, even if it's only five feet in either direction, is sort of calming and mind-clearing.

"Yer the weirdest 'un I've had yet, kid," Patches observes abruptly and I stop to look at him. "Most o' 'em go runnin' for home the moment I tell 'em where they are. Start panicking, see, thinkin' they've made some mistake."

"It wasn't a mistake," I say certainly. "If this whole thing is real, it wasn't a mistake. I – They're better off without me."

"Yeh sure o' that?" Patches is giving me a really strange look, cocking one eyebrow and smirking almost like he's daring me.

"Yes," I say, but I plunge my hands into my pockets and stare at the ground between my feet thoughtfully. What if I'm wrong? No, I can't be wrong. It's too late for being wrong. Besides, my logic is sound. Not having to constantly care for and accommodate and feel guilty about a kid in a wheelchair would definitely be a plus in life.

"Yeh don' think they might miss yeh a bit?"

I furrow my brow thoughtfully. "No, you can't miss what was never there, right?"

Patches looks a bit surprised for a second. "Well yeah, I s'pose not," he admits. "Never had it put to me like that."

I feel a little satisfaction at that, but it's short-lived as my brain instantly moves on to other things. I keep trying to push my glasses up, but they aren't there and I just end up rubbing my nose. After a few minutes of toying with my gloves I realize I don't need them, since I don't have a wheelchair anymore. I tug them off, feeling the liberating freedom of the chill winter air on my bare palms, and stuff them into my pocket.

I don't exist. That seems like such a strange thing to think. It _is_ a strange thing to think. How can a person be thinking about the fact that they don't exist, because they'd have to exist to be capable of thinking, wouldn't they? So if I don't exist, how am I here and thinking about my non-existence?

"What do I do now?" I ask, turning back to Patches curiously.

"What yeh mean?" Patches asks, not bothering to look up from his scotch bottle to answer me.

"I mean, I don't exist. What exactly am I supposed to do with my life now? Do I like, go out and start a new life for myself, or do I just wander around not existing?" I elaborate, and dread starts to curl in my stomach. Neither one of those ideas sounds very comforting, but especially not that second one.

Patches laughs in his throat, his mouth full of amber liquid. I wait impatiently until he swallows and grins at me again. "Nope, neither," he says with a strange little smile. "Those are just stupid. Nah, yeh'll sorta fade out all slow like. Yeh can't just make yerself stop existin' right 'way, it messes with yer spirit and all that. Depends on yer spirit, but yeh usually have 'bout two, sometimes three days 'fore yeh vanish all the way."

"Three days?" I ask incredulously, looking around and wondering what I'm supposed to do with myself for three days.

"Well yeah, gotta give it time to dis'ppear," Patches says, again like it's the most obvious thing in the world. I try not to be annoyed by that; how am I supposed to know what a person goes through when they stop existing? "Gives yeh time to get yer last looks, too. Yeh know, see them people you love one more time 'fore goin' away fer good."

I look down at the ground between my shoes again, which is a sight I'm sure I'll never quite get used to. Of course, it's not like I have all that much more time to see it, if this crazy hobo's right. Final goodbyes? I hadn't even considered that. Did I really want to see them again before I left? Have to deal with the pain of the parting?

"They won't know me, right?" I ask, not looking up.

Patches scoffs. "Since yeh don' exist, I'd reckon not."

If I'm about to fade into non-existence, maybe it would be nice to see them all one more time. To see how happy they are now that I'm gone, and know that I made that decision to make them so happy. Yeah, maybe that would be a good thing. If I'm gonna go along with this crack dream, I might as well do it all the way.

Turning, I set off at a run. I hear Patches chasing after me and he shouts, "Where yeh think yer going, kid?"

I don't even bother to look back over my shoulder at him when I answer. "Home."


	3. Seeking Home

AN: Oh my goodness, the angst. A couple of you commented that this is a lot darker than the original "It's a Wonderful Life." That is completely intentional. Glee is to High School Musical, as It's A Wheelderful Life is to It's a Wonderful Life. One of my favorite things about Glee is that it is willing to go where other shows won't, and touch on those darker, taboo aspects of life that everyone else avoids. I want to do the same thing with this fic, and consquently this fic will get very dark and very angsty, and will touch on topics that normally even _I _avoid. That's why it's rated T. I am warning you all in advance, in case this is something that will bother you. I don't want to make you all uncomfortable, because I love your support. Just know that from here on out, things are about to take a turn for the dark side. I've written up through the seventh chapter, and if you think this is bad, you ain't seen nothin' yet.

On that note: Enjoy! XD

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Chapter 3 – Seeking Home

"Kid, wouldja slow down?"

Patches is still puffing along behind me as I jog down Main Street, and deep down I know I should probably stop and wait for him. After all, he's the only person in this world who knows I exist, if what he's been telling me is true. But I can't make myself stop. Because I'm actually running.

_Running_. Something I've only dreamt about doing for over half of my life now. I used to run constantly as a kid; racing with my dad and brother, stealing bases in little league ball. More than standing or walking, I've missed the feeling of running. Legs pumping, wind in your face, moving so fast it feels like you could take off flying at any second. I can't help but laugh. This feels – euphoric.

"C'mon, kid, yeh don' wanna go an' do that," Patches calls out behind me. I imagine this must look funny to anyone watching; some kid dressed in pure white being chased down the street by a dirty, yelling homeless man. Wait, if I don't exactly exist, can other people even see me? I'll have to remember to ask Patches that when he catches up with me.

I turn onto my street and seeing my house makes my nerves flare. What will my parents look like in this world without me? They'll look younger, most likely, with less gray to their hair and fewer lines on their faces. Dad won't have that determinedly optimistic smile that's hiding the heartache he's really feeling. Mom won't have that haunted look in the corners of her eyes from every time she's thought about the accident.

As I get closer to the house, I notice it looks different. The shutters are blue instead of maroon. The concrete ramp beside the front door, built for my wheelchair, is gone. There's a huge tree in the yard that was never there before. In the driveway is a shiny SUV and a restored classic Corvette. My heart jumps at the sight of it; my dad always wanted a 'Vette. Had I been part of what stopped him from getting it?

I'm about three houses away when a group of kids come tearing out the front door of the house. Two little blonde boys and a girl, all of them laughing and cheering excitedly. My parents had more kids? I had never even considered the possibility that I might have stopped my parents from having more children. But wait, those children all have light hair. I understood enough in the genetics course of Biology to know that blonde hair is a recessive gene and both of my parents have dark hair.

Then the man comes out, a big hulking mammoth of a man with dusty brown hair. He's chasing the kids around the yard and finally they settle into a game of football with a bright purple nerf ball. That's definitely not my dad. Who are these people and where is my family?

I don't even realize I've stopped walking until I hear Patches come up behind me, panting heavily. "Jesus, kid, what'd yeh go and do that fer?" he gasps out, bending over to put his hands on his knees. "Damn near give me a heart attack chasin' after yeh."

"Where's my family?" I demand, turning away from the family of blondes to face him.

"Well they don' live 'ere, do they?" Patches says, glancing up to roll his eyes at me. "That's what I were tryin' to tell yeh."

Of course, my family wouldn't be living here. We'd moved into this house after the accident. The old house had two stories, stairs I definitely couldn't get up without a lot of hassle, and most of the hallways were too narrow for my chair. Dad had found this house while I was still in the hospital, a nice one-story with bigger halls and rooms. He'd poured the cement ramp to the front and back doors himself.

I look back at the house again, at the happy family playing in the yard. My family hadn't had to uproot themselves for me. The old house had been on the opposite end of town, and my older brother's best friend had lived next door. Mom and Dad had been friends with all the neighbors and there were constantly people coming round to chat. We'd been really happy there before the accident. Without me, my family would have been able to stay there.

And this house went to this family. They look like they're all really happy. Had my family buying this house pushed out the offer from these people? I hate to think that because of me, this family might not have been able to have this house where they all look so happy. Further proof that my not existing is making people happier.

"Where are they?" I ask Patches without turning around.

"Well yeh gotta give me a bit to get meself back toget'er, kiddo," Patches says and he sits down heavily on the sidewalk, pulling his scotch bottle out of an inner pocket of his coat. I want to kick him and get him moving, but I contain myself. Pissing off the only person who has any idea what's going on here doesn't exactly sound like the brightest idea.

Taking a steadying breath, I sit down in the middle of the walk too. Pulling my legs up to my chest, I wrap my arms loosely around them and rest my chin on my knees. The fact that I'm in a different world is actually starting to sink in a little now. I didn't realize how much I'd been expecting to show up at home and see my parents, smiling and happy. But of course, if I'd given it any thought before taking off I would have known they wouldn't be here.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I'd been hoping to see them, and they'd see me and know who I was. Honestly, I want to be able to live in this world where I'm not the geek with the glasses, or the cripple in the wheelchair. I want to be that son my parents can be proud of, who can be an ace on the sports teams and actually be liked at school. That guy who can walk down the hallways at school with Tina on his arm, and not her standing behind his chair.

Sighing, I tilt my head down and press my forehead against my knees. It still feels really unnatural to be able to feel that. I may want all those things, but more than anything, I'd rather not have any of it and see everyone else happy. My parents can have Jack, who is every bit the perfect son, and he can follow all his dreams without any guilt. And Tina can have a best friend who she's not teased for being around, someone whole who can give her all the things I can't. Someone she can have feelings for without being slushied for it.

Something nudges my leg and I look up. Patches has an almost sensitive expression on his face and he's holding out the scotch bottle curiously. I grimace and shake my head. He just shrugs and takes another swallow.

"Alright, let's get a move on," Patches says. He huffs and puffs as he gets to his feet, and I once again stand up smoothly, disoriented by just how easy it is. "Follow me," Patches says as he's stowing his bottle away again, and then he sets off back the direction we'd come.

I walk along silently behind him as we go, my mind still racing with all the possibilities that my family and friends will have for good things now that they don't have to deal with me. Patches leads me across to the other side of Main, and my forehead wrinkles in confusion. My family's old house was way West of here. Had they moved again, maybe into an even nicer house?

The district he's leading me into is comprised almost completely of cheap condominiums and shabby apartment buildings. Who could I know who's living here? There's no way my family would give up their house to come live in one of these places. Maybe he's leading me to the outskirts of town beyond this place, where there's a whole bunch of big lots with really nice houses on them.

We round the corner of another apartment block and Patches stops on the walk leading to the building. "3A," he says, pointing up the stairs.

"They live here?" I ask, not wanting to believe it. It's not like it's a bad apartment building. As far as the buildings on this street go, it's probably one of the nicer ones really. It's just that it's clearly made up of very small apartments and I can't imagine my parents ever living in an apartment. They have always been very much 'house and home' people.

"Hey kid, be careful what yeh say to 'em, alright?" Patches advises. "People don' take kind to hearin' people say they're from 'nother worlds. Trust me."

"Who lives here?" I ask. "There's no way my parents are living here. Is it Jack?"

"3A," Patches repeats, pointing again.

I suck in a steadying breath and then nod. My legs all of a sudden feel like lead as I cross the sidewalk, which is cracked in a few places and has drying grass pushing up through the cracks. The metal stairs rattle noisily as I climb them, all the way to the third floor. The door on my right has a slightly rusted 'A' tacked to its front, and all I can do is stand and stare at it.

_Knock, Artie._ I swallow hard. Why am I so nervous? My family is better off without me. Besides, this can't be my family. This is just that stupid hobo trying to freak me out. And none of this is real anyway, right?

Raising a hand, I knock on the door. For a moment there's nothing but silence, and then I hear footsteps pounding toward the door. They sound heavy, staggered like the person isn't walking very steadily. There's the scrape of a lock, and then another, and then the door opens just a crack. Above the rusty chain stopping the door from opening all the way, I can see half of a man's face.

The man's faintly bloodshot blue eye narrows as he stares at me, and there are wrinkles all around it and shadows lay heavy beneath. His graying brown hair is disheveled, like he's just rolled out of bed, and there's a frown on his face. "I'm not buying," he says and goes to close the door.

"I'm not selling," I say, putting my hand out against the door quickly to stop him. He hesitates and glares at me again. I can't believe what I'm looking at. This can't really be – "Mr. Abrams?" I ask cautiously.

The way his eyes spark at the mention of the name gives me my answer and my heart falls into my stomach. _Dad_. What's happened to him? He looks – worn. "Who are you?" he asks suspiciously.

"I'm a friend," I say, because it's the first thing that comes to mind.

Dad snorts. "You're one of those damned church boys, aren't you, coming to try and lead your little stray sheep back to the herd," he says and his disdain is clear in his voice. This surprises me, because out of everyone in my family, my dad was always the one who was most devoted to his faith. "Well you'll have to take your business elsewhere. I'm not interested."

"I'm not from the church," I say, keeping my hand firmly against the door. My mind is whirring. What to say, what can I say to make him talk to me? "I'm a friend of your son's," I blurt out. Dad's eyes narrow again. "Jack's. I'm a friend of Jack's."

"Jackie hasn't had a friend come around in years," Dad says, and there's still something suspicious in his voice. "How'd you find me?"

My mind races for a plausible answer. "Phonebook." Oh dear God, please let him actually be listed in the phonebook…

Dad grunts and nods. Then in one mighty push he's closed the door in my face. My chest is aching at the dismissal. My dad, my own father, doesn't know who I am. He thinks I'm some sort of religious, door-to-door salesman. There wasn't the slightest bit of recognition as he looked at me. Like I'd never existed to him.

There's a loud scraping and then the door opens again, fully this time. Dad is framed in the doorway, his height filling it almost completely. It's even more of a shock to see him like this; dressed in jeans with worn knees and a limp looking teeshirt. He folds his arms over his chest and stares me down.

"What do you want?" he asks and there's an edge of bitterness in his tone. "Jack's friends know not to come here anymore."

_Why not?_ I ignore the question in my brain as I spin out another lie. "We were really good friends a lot time ago, but I moved," I say quickly. "I've just moved back and I wanted to get in contact with him again."

To my surprise, my dad lets out a really sarcastic laugh. "You must have been gone a long time to think you're gonna get in contact with him again," he says but beneath the off-handedness there is something darker, colder. "He doesn't get much contact with anyone anymore, not even me."

"Please, just, do you know where he is?" I ask. Dad chews on his bottom lip for a minute and then he grabs a slip of paper off the table by the door, scrawls out an address on it, and hands it to me.

"Good luck getting him to talk to you though," Dad says as I tuck it into my pocket.

"Why?" I ask but Dad just shrugs and shakes his head. Figuring he's not going to tell me anything more about my brother, I decide to change topics. There's still one more person he can tell me about. "So – how's your wife? Judy?"

The change on Dad's face is so fast it's scary. Instantly he looks angry, his eyes narrowed, his frown tight, and he straightens up so he's towering over me. I've never seen him look so furious. I've also never seen the pain that's in his eyes now. "I think it's time you go, kid," he says and it's less like a suggestion and more like a threat.

"I'm sorry," I say, instinctively shrinking back.

Dad puts one hand on the doorknob to close the door and then fixes his eyes on me. "And next time you blow back into a town, I'd advise you stop trying to dig up the past," he says, his tone menacing. "It'll lead you places you don't wanna go, and every time you do it you're dragging all the rest of us with you." Without another word, he slams the door so hard the letter on the door falls off at my feet.


	4. A Sick Sort of Karma

AN: Yay, no one has beat me for the angst yet! Oh crap, it's only getting worse. I'm really hoping you guys (especially those of you who are my fluff fans) have a pretty high angst tolerance. I won't lie, I cried writing this chapter. A lot.

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Chapter 4 – A Sick Sort of Karma

It takes me five minutes before I've recovered from the shock enough to turn and leave the apartment building. I feel sort of like I'm walking through mud, with everything pushing against me, but at the same time my limbs feel all tingly. I'm not exactly sure what's going on, but it could very well be shock. Yeah, that makes sense. Shock.

He doesn't know me. My brain doesn't want to wrap around that truth. My own Dad; the one who'd raised me, played baseball with me as a kid, got me interested in music after the accident, and was always encouraging me. And he hadn't even known who I was. For the first time, the truth of this whole situation hits me like freight train.

This is really _real_.

I really don't exist in this world. This place has never known an Artie Abrams before. My family has never seen me before, my friends will never have hung out with me. My teachers won't remember having me in their classes, because I was never there. What have I done?

I've been walking mechanically, not really paying attention to where I'm going. I find myself in a park across the street from city hall. Sitting down on one of the benches, I draw my legs up my chest again. My whole body is shaking, and not just from the cold. In fact, I can't even feel the cold even though it's after dark now and it's starting to snow. Because I don't exist to feel.

I came to this place to make my family feel better. But my dad doesn't look like his life is any better. What happened to my brother that Dad doesn't even talk to him anymore? They used to be best friends, even more so than me and Dad. And the way he looked when I brought up Mom – what happened there? This world isn't turning out the way I expected it. Patches was right.

Patches! I just now realize that he's nowhere in sight. I hadn't really been paying attention, but I had expected he was outside the apartment building waiting for me. So where is he now? Why hadn't he followed me here? After the way he'd chased me when I ran for home, I'd expected him to be with me until I vanish. He has to stick around, he's the only person who knows what's going on. He's my guide or something. So why isn't he here?

Feeling helpless, I lay down on the bench, keeping my body curled up protectively. I've got nowhere to go, no home to take me in, and no family to miss me. Do I even want to go find the rest of my family before I disappear? Can I really survive going through what I just did with my dad again? Yes, I have to, because I have to know that they, at least, are doing better. Maybe I can talk them into taking care of Dad, make sure that he's okay. Because they can't all be that miserable. My going away is supposed to be making lives better.

Closing my eyes, I let myself fall asleep on the hard park bench in the snow.

I don't dream, which is a relief. Life is already feeling too much like a nightmare, so I'm not sure I can manage anymore creative torture from my brain.

When I wake up, all I can see is white. I panic, thinking that maybe this is that part where I'm vanishing from the world, but when I bolt upright I see that it's just the snow. The overcast sky is still dark gray, and it looks like about four inches of snow fell overnight. Including on top of me.

Standing up, I shake the snow off myself. My skin feels a little cold to the touch, but nowhere close to what I should be after sleeping the night through underneath a blanket of crystallized frozen water. Realistically, I should be a nice shade of blue and being carted off to the morgue. I see a mother down by the playgrounds give me an alarmed look and I hastily turn away, heading out of the park. A person materializing out of the snow is probably a good enough cause for her to call the police and I really don't want to end up spending my last few days in jail.

Glancing at my watch, I see that it's nearly noon. Gees, for not existing, I sure sleep a long time. My hand dips into my pocket and I pull out the strip of paper my dad had given me yesterday. The address is unfamiliar, other than it seems like it must be up the businessy part of town. This is where Dad said I can find Jack. I only hesitate for a minute longer before starting off.

A lot of people are giving me weird looks as I walk, and I can imagine why. Besides the fact that I'm dressed to match the color of the snow, my outfit isn't exactly the sort of clothes most people wear while they're out trooping through the weather. Everyone that passes me is wearing coats and boots and scarves. The warmest thing I've got on is my sweater vest, and considering the fact that it's paired with a short-sleeve buttondown, that's not really saying much.

Even before making this stupid jump to this new world, I hadn't seen Jack in a while. He's almost eight years older than me, so he graduated and left home while I was still in elementary school. He moved to Cleveland for work, (there's not a lot of business for realtors in a town like Lima) and then got married to a single mother and then they had another baby of their own. With two kids to take care of, he doesn't get the time to come home and visit a whole lot. He was supposed to be bringing them up next week to spend the week of Christmas with us.

I think of the Jack I know from my world. There he was a star, popular in school and full of potential. Everyone expected him to go places, if not in sports than at least in something else. After his baby brother was in a car accident, it seemed like all of the motivation and big dreams funneled out of him. He spent less time with his friends and more at home being a friend to his crippled brother. And then instead of going off to one of the three colleges that offered him sports scholarships, he went to the community college and got a real estate license.

I find the street that's on the paper and walk along, checking the numbers. _102…108…114…_ Finally I find it, number 120. It's a fairly large building, with gray stone walls and lots of windows that look like they've been painted shut. There's a sign in the front yard that reads "Lima Living Home." What in the world is Jack doing in a place like this? This looks like a retirement home or something. Maybe he works here.

Walking up to the door, I slip into what looks a bit like a reception area. The walls are papered in a funny little bleached floral print, and there are framed pictures on the walls that all seem to just be blurs of color without any distinct shapes. Behind the desk is an older woman in pink scrubs with a festively Christmassy cardigan, and she beams brightly at me as I walk over.

"Can I help you, sonny?" she asks, a little too happily. There's something sort of creepy about just how smiley she is, and my nerves are on edge from the strangeness of it all.

"Yes, I'm looking for Jackson Abrams," I say and I see something sad spark in the woman's eyes.

"Of course, sweetie, come with me," she says and heaves herself up from her chair. She sets off down a hallway, passing by dozens of doors. "I'm so glad you've come by. Poor Jackie hasn't had anyone to see him in a while except his dad. Ben does a good job of coming by at least twice a week." This surprises me since Dad said he hadn't spoken to Jack in a while. So which one of them is lying to me?

We pass by what looks like a large living room. There are several people of various ages sitting around and staring at a television playing the Disney Channel, an older woman is sitting in the corner drumming away at the closed lid of a piano (a tune that I'm shocked to recognize as Mozart), and a young boy is talking animatedly to thin air in a hoarse, guttural voice. The rest of the people in the room are dressed in scrubs like the lady leading me.

Before I can ask any questions, we are passed the room and slipping into an elevator. The woman pushes the 'up' button and it starts grinding upward. "So honey, if you don't mind my asking, how do you know our Jackie?" she asks with overly-bright curiosity. I can't really tell if it's faked or genuine.

"We're old friends," I say, deciding to stick with the story I'd already come up with. "We – grew up together. I was just in town and heard he was here, and I wanted to see him."

The woman smiles - _still_. "That's awfully sweet of you, pum'kin," she says, patting my arm. "He'll be happy to have some company." We step out of the elevator and she leads me down to an open doorway."Jackie, you've got company," she says and then moves out of the way. I go into the room and my eyes finally land on him.

Jack's sitting in an armchair, facing the window. He's wearing faded pajamas and a green bathrobe that looks like he's had it on for years. His brown hair is thin and straggly, prematurely gray around the temples, and his eyes are pale and completely vacant. Even from here I can see white scars on his pale skin, on his hands and neck and face.

"Oh Jack," I gasp. He doesn't even stir. Turning to the woman, who by this time I've guessed is some sort of nurse, I have to ask. "What happened to him?"

"You don't know?" she asks in surprise.

I shake my head, trying to keep my breathing under control. "Da- Mr. Abrams just told me he was here, he didn't say why."

"He and his mom were in a car accident, about eight or nine years back," the nurse says in a low voice. "Hit his head, the poor dear." She pats my arm sympathetically. "If he gives you any trouble, just give a holler, okay?"

Before I can ask her what that's supposed to mean, she turns and walks away. Cautiously, I go further into the room. Jack doesn't take any notice of me, and just keeps staring out of the window like he's watching a movie. There's a plastic chair facing the armchair, and I slip into it, still keeping an anxious eye on my older brother. He doesn't move.

All I can do is stare. This man sitting in front of me looks nothing like the Jack I've always known. There's no color in his face, no playful smirk on his lips, no light in his eyes. This figure sitting in front of me is just a shell of a body. A shell of my brother's body.

"I'm so sorry, Jack." I can feel the tears in my eyes and I don't even bother to brush them away. This must be some sort of twisted Karma. One Abrams boy isn't around to get smashed up in a car, so the other one gets it instead. I remember that the doctors had said it was lucky I was so short or else I would have likely cracked my head against the dashboard. Apparently Jack was just the right height.

"This isn't working out right, Jack," I say in a choked voice, staring up at his unresponsive face. He just blinks and keeps staring out at the snow. "I meant to make everything better. You were supposed to be great in this life; a baseball star who your kids and your wife could be so proud of. Or at least an architect like you used to want to be. This – I never wanted this for you."

This isn't fair. It's not supposed to happen like this. They're supposed to be better off without me, not worse. It doesn't make sense. But instead my dad is angry and reclusive, and my brother is – _this_. It's almost like he doesn't really exist either. His body is here but there's nothing else going on. I wonder if he ever gets up and leaves this chair, or if he spends his every minute just sitting. It's oddly reminiscent of me, spending my whole life in a chair. But at least I'm still alive, or was. This, living like the way Jack is, this is just cruel.

Suddenly I understand what my dad meant about not being able to get Jack to talk to him. Why he said Jack's friends all learned to stop showing up. Why the nurse said no one comes to visit him anymore. There's no point in it. I'm not sure he even knows I'm here, or if he does then he doesn't care.

"I'm so, so sorry. I wish – I wish there was something, anything I could–" I trail off, not able to come up with enough words to convey the agonizing guilt in my chest. Without me around, Jack took that bullet for me and suddenly my paralysis doesn't seem quite so awful. Anything, even death, would be better than this.

Crying, I reach out for his hand, resting on the arm of the chair. The moment my skin touches his, I can feel the change in the air. Jack's head snaps sideways, his eyes lock on mine with a furious intensity. And then he screams.

I don't even feel the contact of his hand against my face until I'm falling backwards over the chair. He's launched himself at me and he's pummeling every inch of me he can get to with a strength I wouldn't have guessed he'd have in that wasted body, all the while still screaming that one high-pitched note. I can't tell if it's in pain or anger or fear.

A pair of men in green scrubs manage to haul him off of me and a nurse sticks a needle into his arm, injecting him with some clear liquid. The volume of Jack's scream fades off and he slumps down in his armchair. It seems like he's forgotten entirely about me and everyone else in the room as his half-lidded eyes move back to the window as if nothing had happened.

"Are you alright, dear?" It's the woman that led me up here and she's kneeling at my side.

"I'm fine," I say, brushing away her hand. My cheek is stinging, and I can feel aches across most of my upper body, but I don't care about that. I can only stare in horror at the dormant monster that is what's left of my brother.

"I'm so sorry, he doesn't usually do that," the woman says, helping me to my feet. She puts a hand on my back and steers me out of the room. I watch over my shoulder the entire time, seeing my last glimpses of Jack's drooping figure before we turn the corner and he's cut off from sight.

"Why does he do that?" I ask. I realize I'm shaking again.

"We're not really sure," she admits. "Most of the time he just sits there. He's never done that to anyone but his dad before, and we still don't know what it is about Ben that sets him off."

I think of the look of intensity in my brother's gaze as his eyes fixed on my face. That's why he attacked me; he thought I was our dad. Mom always told me how much I look like Dad.

When we're back down at the reception area, I wipe my hands against my cheeks, wiping away the last of the tears. "Are you sure you'll be alright, dear?" the woman asks. "You look like you've got a pretty good black eye forming already. Do you want some ice for it?"

"No, I'm fine, really," I say. "Trust me, I've taken worse." The woman looks unnerved by this, and when I think back over what I'd just said I figure she has pretty good reason to be, but she nods and her cheery smile returns.

"Thank you for coming anyway," she says and pats my arm again. I work not to wince as she touches what will most likely be a bruise soon. "We think he still likes to have company, even if he doesn't exactly show it."

I nod, and my chest feels unnaturally tight as I think of the visit. It takes all my will power to not break down in tears again, but it's a close one. There's only one unanswered question in all of this that I really need to know the answer to. That one person who hasn't been mentioned in all of this. "Does his mother ever come to see him?"

The woman's smile completely vanishes.

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AN: Ok so on the last chapter a reviewer was sharing her theories on what she thinks may be coming (thanks again Kyra!) and that got me curious - again. Have you guys noticed I get randomly curious a lot? So what I want to know is: What do _you_ think Artie's mom will be like in this world?


	5. Brooding on the Brink of Death

AN: It was great hearing all your theories on what will happen in this chapter, it seemed like you guys were pretty unanimously set on some death happening. Wow, when I bring the angst, you guys really reciprocate, don't you? Anyone wanna put down theories for the next chapter?

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Chapter 5 – Brooding on the Brink of Death

I'm walking across the snowy lot, every few feet stopping to kick away a patch of snow to check what's underneath it before starting off again. I feel incredibly numb and I'm sure that it has nothing at all to do with the fact that the sign outside the car dealership I passed on the way here said it's only twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. _Negative two degrees Celsius_, my brain instinctively converts for me.

My feet are moving so slowly that it takes me more than a minute to travel the four feet between each spot. I've already been here for almost an hour, working my way slowly but surely from the front of the lot in a winding zigzag. I'm sure if anyone's watching me they're thinking I'm completely insane. Considering that I'm a paraplegic teenager who's wandering around in an alternate reality where I was never born, completely insane might not be too far off the mark.

I stop, brush my foot over the spot and then shake my head. Still not it. I vaguely realize that I still haven't found Patches yet. At the moment it doesn't seem all that pressing of a matter. It's not like he's going to make anything better. Although I have to admit, that offer of some of his scotch is starting to sound really tempting. I don't exist, it's not like it'll kill me.

I've gone back another row and I'm starting to feel hopeful that maybe I won't find it. Maybe that woman was mistaken, and it's not really here. After all the other horrible things that have happened in the last twenty-four hours in this world, that seems like a far hope but it's a hope nonetheless. I need to think that at least there's something right with this place.

My foot drags over another spot and my heart stops. There it is. Damn, it's really here. I kneel down and wipe away the last of the snow, revealing the granite plaque. My fingers trace slowly over the engraved letters, memorizing them.

_Judy Elisabeth Abrams… Beloved Wife and Mother… September 16, 1959 – May 23, 2002… She Will Be Missed_

I can feel my eyes burning again and my chest feels like it's being crushed. I'm shaking again, and for once in my life I don't fight against the sobs that are ripping their way up my throat. I double over, hugging myself, and let my forehead rest on my mother's headstone.

The story the gossipy nurse had been only too willing to tell me comes back, except that instead of gentle and soothing, her voice sounds high and taunting.

_"She visited almost every day right after the accident, every day for almost a whole year. Even after the divorce went through. And then one day she just stopped showing up. After four days of nothing, Ben was getting worried. He's the one that found her, when he went over to check on her. A note on the table, saying she couldn't handle the guilt of seeing what she'd done to their family, and an empty bottle of sleep aides in her hand."_

I didn't want to believe it. That's why I'd come to check myself. Mom wasn't that sort of person; she wouldn't abandon her family like that. No matter how horrible things had gotten, Mom had always been there for me. And she would always be there for Jack, and for Dad too. I don't want to believe that Mom was capable of this sort of desertion, but the slab of granite I'm using as a pillow tells me otherwise.

My mom had killed herself.

Finally admitting the sentence to myself, even if it's just in my head, sends another spasm of sobs through me. I had never in my wildest imagination imagined a world where my mom wasn't alive. I know no one ever wants to think about their mom being dead, unless they have a really screwed up home life maybe, but this sends a particularly deep stab of pain through my chest.

Because it's my fault.

I still hadn't heard the whole story, and the only person who could really explain the truth to me is lying in a wooden box six feet underneath me, but I know enough now to piece it together. In this world without me, it had been Jack who'd taken my place in that car wreck with Mom. Once again she had survived unscathed, but instead of being paralyzed, Jack had been severely brain damaged.

Knowing Mom, the guilt of the accident is what pushed her to divorce Dad. I know Dad would never divorce her, or at least I'm pretty sure, but even I had noticed that after my accident their relationship had been on edge. Mom had been tearing herself apart with the guilt, and it wouldn't have surprised me if she'd considered leaving. The difference was that with me, there had still been two fully-aware kids to care for. In this world, there was just a Jack who had no clue what was going on.

And then finally, after a full year of tormenting herself, she couldn't take it anymore. Couldn't keep going. Gave up.

Despite how awful this all is, I can't help but feel angry at my mom. Why did she just leave them like that? Families are supposed to stay together, it's how they get through the bad things. It's how we got through it when I was in the accident. They aren't supposed to just check out because they think it's hard.

I lift a hand and limply thump the slab of granite. Because not five seconds after that flash of anger seared through me, that's the most anger I can manage. Because I think of Jack and I can't imagine how terrible she must have felt, and how guilty and responsible she must have felt for it.

Except I can. I can imagine how guilty she feels, because it's how I'm feeling right now. It was my choice to push everyone to this world and put them through this, all because I was feeling a little sulky. I had forced the people I cared about into this hell and now there's nothing I can do to make things better.

This is why Dad was so furious when I mentioned Mom. The anger at her for leaving him behind, and the hurt that she's gone. It's no wonder he looks the way he does, with everything he's had to go through. First his son, his amazing, talented son full of so much promise for life, is put through that accident and sent into a life as an empty husk. And then his wife, his one remaining support beam, ends their marriage. And then finally she just leaves entirely.

And it's all my fault.

No, it's not! I hit the gravestone again as a surge of defiance flares in me. It's not my fault that they can't take care of themselves. I gave them an opportunity for a better life, one without me, and they tore themselves apart instead. It's not my fault that Mom couldn't be strong enough, and it's not my fault that Dad became a bitter cynic.

I sit up, brushing my hands roughly over my cheeks, wiping away the tears that are beginning to freeze to my skin. The bruises on my face have faded to a very dull ache, and the glimpse I got of myself in a reflective window on the way here showed me that they haven't colored my skin at all. One of the perks of being non-existent, I suppose.

The impulse to leave floods into me and I tense the muscles of my legs to stand. I put a hand against the headstone for balance and as I do, I notice something. My skin looks unnaturally light, transparent, and I can read the engraved words beneath it. Panic surges into me as I look down over the rest of my body and realize that I'm semi-transparent all the way up my right arm.

This can't be the end already! It hasn't been three days yet, only two. Patches had said two or three, hadn't he? Where is that crazy hobo when you need him? I look around, half expecting him to have materialized out of nowhere, but he's still gone. I don't want to disappear yet. There's still one more person I have to see.

The color starts to bleed back into my arm and I feel relief sweep through me. More time, I just need a little more time. One more day. My hand is the last thing to solidify, and just before it does I realize what word it is I can see through my hand.

_Mother_.

In a wave, it comes sweeping over me again. I'm sitting at my mother's grave. My mom is dead. I double over again, tucking my head into my knees and wrapping my hands around the back of my neck so I can't sit up again. The worst bout of tears yet attacks me, and I cry myself to sleep.

This time, I do dream.

I'm tied to the flagpole again. My brother is pummeling me, asking me angrily why I tore his life away from him. My dad is standing in the background, not moving a finger to help me and giving me a horribly betrayed, disappointed look. Mom, pale and sunken-faced, is standing at his side, and she doesn't do anything but stare at me with white eyes while tears pour down her cheeks. Jack never stops hitting me. I try to explain, to tell them why I did this, but my mouth is duct taped again and I can't make a sound. And then Patches appears between my parents, toasts me with his scotch bottle, and breaks out in a wicked grin.

I wake up with my heart racing. I'm once again sleeping in the snow, this time in a worn down nest of it at the base of my mother's gravestone. While I try to get my breathing back under control, I look down and this time I can see the snow through my legs and body. Which does nothing to help me get my heart rate back to normal.

Jumping to my feet, I touch my arms and legs and stomach, making sure that I can still feel them all. They feel solid under my touch, but then again I'm the one disappearing so maybe they will always feel solid to me. As I'm watching, the color spreads over me again and within minutes I'm whole again.

Giving my mom's grave one last look, I turn and jog out of the cemetery. A glance at my watch tells me it's just before seven on a Thursday morning. There's one more person I need to see, that one person I always go to when I need someone.

And right now I need that someone more than I ever have before.


	6. A Broken Stranger

AN: Yay, longest chapter yet! And that it wholly and completely because of the character who features in it, which I'm sure you all have already guessed who. I just dramatically re-wrote this chapter in about a half hour right before posting because I wasn't fully satisfied with their interaction, and that's why it ended up about five hundred words longer than it was, and I'm sorry if it's not quite what you were all expecting. I was trying really hard to keep this part as realistic and in character as I could, and this is just what spawned from that. Oh and originally I was going to post a chapter a day until Christmas, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to get to the computer Christmas day to post the last part, and I don't want those of you who won't be able to to have to wait, so I'm posting two today so that the final chapter will come the morning of Christmas Eve. Cheers!

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Chapter 6 – A Broken Stranger

The familiar building of McKinley High sends a weird chill through my stomach. It's overwhelming to think that three days ago I was here, as a normal(-ish) student, going through my classes with my best friend and jamming out at after school Glee practice. And two days ago was that god-awful day that started this whole mess, when everything that could possibly go wrong in this building went wrong all at once. And now here I am, a non-existent being lurking at the park across the street and waiting for the final bell to ring.

I was too late to catch Tina before school started, and I didn't dare wander the halls in search of her. If I'd been caught by a teacher, they could have led to a lot of awkward questions I can't answer. So instead I'm on a park bench, although for the last hour I was pacing a circle around the playground. Man, I never realized just how long school is. It's not like I really have the time to kill here, I have a deadline. And I never realized just how ironic the word '_dead_line' is, especially in this case.

Finally the bell rings and I look up hopefully. A few minutes later students start filtering out of the building, and I cross the street to join in with them. Which is hard since I'm wearing these stupid white clothes that are still impeccably white despite all the dirt and grass and other objects with staining abilities they've come in contact with over the last few days. I push my way through the crowd and into the school building. Thursday afternoon means Glee practice.

The hallway outside the choir room is almost empty and silent. I peek inside but there's no one there. Confused, I stop the next guy walking past the room, a football player who I realize was once part of the group that gave me a patriotic wedgie. "Where the Glee club?" I ask.

The football player snorts. "Geek club? That shit didn't last a week. Where the hell you been?"

I ignore his question and walk away. Tina has last period Spanish, maybe I can catch her coming out of Mr. Schue's classroom. I get into the foreign language hall, but the room that used to be Mr. Schuester's now has a sign by the door that says 'Senora Ramirez.' Why isn't he here? Did he really leave in this world? And the room is empty and dark, not a Tina in sight.

I'm starting to panic now, trying to figure out where she'd be. Maybe she doesn't take last period Spanish here. We'd planned our schedules together at the end of freshman year so we could get as many classes together as possible, so maybe she'd taken it a different hour to be with a different friend. Then how was I supposed to find her?

Turning for the back doors of the school, I decide to wait outside for her and catch her as she leaves the school. Or maybe she's already gone? That's it, I'll just walk for her house and pray I run into her along the way. I just need to see her, know that she, at least, is happy. Maybe if one person, if Tina, is happier without me then I can live with this new world. That wouldn't be too terrible, would it?

I'm just walking out of the building when I hear the sort of laughter that is usually accompanied by a slushie. Reflexively I flinch before realizing that the laughter is around the corner of the building, well away from me. As much as I want to help whoever it is, I need to find Tina before I start vanishing again, so I turn away and start for the sidewalk even as my heart feels heavy with guilt as leaving whoever that is to their fate.

I've only gone about four steps when I hear a whimper and what sounds like a choked sob. Okay, never mind, that's not the sort of thing I can ignore. I head for the corner of the building, my curiosity and years of indignation at being picked on driving me forward. Whatever is happening there sounds like it's more than a slushing.

When I round the corner, it takes my brain a second to process what I'm seeing and when I do I freeze. There's a cluster of letterman jackets, four or five of them, all making a half-circle against the wall of the school fifteen feet ahead of me. I can't see who's in the middle of them, but they seem to have them pinned up against the wall. The jocks are all laughing, and one of them steps further into the circle.

"C'mon baby, you wouldn't wear them skirts if you didn't want to show it off," says the unfortunately familiar voice of the hockey jerk Karovsky. I can't see what's happening but the next thing I hear is a quiet voice saying, "No, p-p-please."

I'm running before I realize I'm moving, and I throw myself into the back of one of the jocks, making his stagger. "Leave her alone," I yell, turning and charging at another jock. Unfortunately my complete lack of practice in the subject of fighting means seconds later I'm on my back on the ground, my head throbbing. Dear God, what is it with the people in this world and always going for the head?

"Who the hell is this?" one of the jocks asks with a laugh.

Ignoring them, I get to my feet again and turn to Karovsky, who is still hovering in front of Tina. She's got her back against the wall, her head bowed so I can't see her face behind her hair. Before I can take a step, someone else grabs me from behind and throws me bodily against the dumpster at the edge of the parking lot. I slump to the ground, trying to get my breath back and really regretting that I'm not a heavier person.

"Isn't it time for Stutterfly to come outta her cocoon?" Karovsky jeers and, as impressed as I am that he managed to come up with something that close to almost being clever, it's enough to get me on my feet again. When I look forward, I see that his hand is on Tina's thigh, and although she's pushing at his arm with both of hers, it's slipping underneath the hem of her skirt.

"Don't touch her!" I shout, throwing myself into the fray again, catching someone in an extremely solid shoulder with my fist. Next second I'm staggering backwards as someone hits me in the chest, and then again in the head.

"Listen to this guy," one of the jocks, probably the one who hit me, says in amusement. I hear them moving, although I'm having a pretty hard time seeing at the moment, and then I feel the vertigo of being tossed. The backs of my calves collide with the edge of the dumpster, before the force of the fall folds me in half and I crash down into the trash bags, and for a second I wish I was paralyzed again just so I didn't have to feel that.

"C'mon Greg, we're gonna be late for practice," another jock says. There's a bit more laughing, a startled shriek, and then suddenly a blur of black lands on top of me, knocking all the air out of me again. The lids of the dumpster come down, making a loud bang that seems infinitely louder from inside, and then their laughter dies away.

"Are you okay?" I ask, gasping.

"F-f-fine," Tina says, clambering off me. I manage to drag myself to my feet as well, despite the fact that my calves feel like someone took a baseball bat to me, and shove against one of the lids until it's open enough for me to slide out. Once I'm outside, I push the lid the rest of the way open and offer an arm in to Tina.

To my surprise, she brushes it away roughly and climbs out on her own. When she's back on her feet she fixes her skirt, which I'm embarrassed to notice is pushed up a lot higher than normal, and then goes to gather up her books where they'd been dropped by the building. I follow her and pick up one of her books, offering it to her. She takes it without a word, not looking at me.

"You sure you're okay?" I ask, reaching for her shoulder.

"D-don't t-t-touch me," Tina says, flinching away from me and knocking my hand aside again. For a moment I'm numb with the shock. I heard her stutter earlier, but I thought it was out of fear. She still does it when she's really upset. But what really gets me is that I've never heard so much anger in her voice before. Ever.

"I'm sorry," I say, holding my hands up in surrender. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay. They didn't hurt you, did they?"

"I'm f-fine," Tina replies sharply and she starts to walk away. I jog around and stop in front of her, making her stop. "Wh-what do you w-want now?"

"He was touching you," I say seriously. I look her over and finally take in all the differences. Her hair is still long and half covering her face, but there aren't any streaks in it. Just like her hair, her clothes are solidly black now too and every hint of the self-expressive color she used to wear is gone. Even her make-up is simple blacks and there's no light in her face. Here, she's just dark.

"H-he tried to," Tina says, shrugging, and then tries to push past me again. I step in front of her, and she makes a noise of frustration. "What th-the hell d-do you want, a m-m-medal? Thanks f-for your help, n-n-now go aw-way."

"I don't want you to thank me," I say as calmly as I can manage. I've never known Tina to be so aggressive, and there's something frightening about the tightness of her expression and the darkness in her eyes. The Tina I know was always shy, yes, but never bitter. She was always bright on the inside, smiling a secret smile behind her hair and then not so secretly after joining Glee. What has happened to her, or didn't happen to her, in this world to make her like this?

My eyes flick up to her hairline and I frown. "You're bleeding," I say. Tina lifts a hand and wipes at the cut, staring at her fingers in an entirely too unbothered way. "C'mon, let me at least help you get cleaned up before you go home. Your parents probably won't like it if you come home looking like that."

"I d-don't need your h-h-help," Tina says and walks around me, heading for the school. I follow a half-step behind her, no matter how many noises of annoyance she makes, and when she slips into the restroom I step in behind her. "Th-this is a girls' r-room," she points out.

"And it's after school so there's no one here," I say in response, shrugging. "Besides, I've been in here before." I neglect to add that it was because she was helping me wash the slushie out of my hair. "And Kurt comes in here all the time."

Tina's brow furrows in confusion. "Who?"

What does she mean, Kurt who? Well there goes the theory of him being her new best friend. "Kurt Hummel, he was on Glee club. Bit of a fashion freak."

"Oh, him," Tina says disinterestedly, turning back to the mirror. I walk over and grab a paper towel, running it under the water and then turn to her. She shirks away from my hand as I move it toward her face and instead she snatches the towel from me and does it herself.

"Do you miss Glee?" I ask curiously, just to get the conversation going.

Tina turns to look at me in surprise. Well at least it's an emotion besides anger or fear, that's a step. "I was n-never on Glee," she says. "Have you h-heard me t-t-talking? I d-don't sing."

How had I forgotten that I was the one to convince her to join Glee club in the first place? The thought of her existing in this world without Glee is crushing. I know just how much the club has done for both of us, but especially for her. Music is her solace, it's what gave her friends (other than me, of course) and confidence and a place to feel safe.

I reach over to pick a piece of lettuce off her sleeve and she glares at me, trying to knock my hand away again. I ignore her, grab the lettuce, and toss it toward the garbage can in the corner. "Let me see that," I say, and before she can hit me or something, I grab her chin gently and look at the scratch on her forehead. Tina sort of growls at me and jerks out of my grip.

"So why aren't your friends here helping you clean off?" I ask, trying to act unbothered by the way she keeps brushing me off.

"D-d-don't need any," she says defensively and I pale slightly as I realize what she's actually saying. She doesn't _have_ any. Before Glee club, in the other world there was only me. In this world, there was apparently no one before Glee club and no club to give her someone else. She's – alone.

"No one?" I ask, and it's getting harder and harder to act unaffected.

"I do f-f-fine on my own. Besides, I don't l-like people." At this she gives me a very pointed look that tells me she's not particularly fond of me either. _Ouch_…

I can only watch her for a moment, taking in the sight of this new Tina. Everything about her is angry and reclusive and scared. She doesn't let anyone get close to her, she is still stuttering because she hasn't found someone who she feels safe enough with to admit the truth, and I can tell she has less confidence in herself than she did when we met back in the seventh grade. This is someone who is facing the world entirely alone and without the slightest bit of faith that she'll survive it.

"Why don't you have streaks in your hair anymore?" I ask, looking at her plain black hair. Her colors were always her way of expressing herself, of showing the world that beneath it all she still had spirit. Without them, it's sort of like her spirit is gone.

"Th-that's none of your b-b-business," she says, wiping the last of the blood from her forehead and throwing away the paper towel. "I'd r-r-really prefer you j-just leave me alone." There's suspicion in her eyes as she looks at me in the mirror and I know I need to be careful where I go next.

"Look, Tee, I just – "

"What'd you call me?"

Damn, so much for being careful. "That's your name, right? You said it earlier," I lie and she shakes her head, turning to look straight at me now. "Or one of the jocks did?" She shakes her head and takes a step away from me, towards the door.

"Who _are_ you?" she asks.

I decide not to comment on her sudden loss of stutter. "I'm a friend," I say as casually as I can. She doesn't look convinced at all. "My name's Artie." For a moment I think I see something like recognition but it's gone in the same second and I am sure I must have imagined it. That doesn't stop the hope from flaring in my chest. "We used to be friends, once, and I cared about you a lot."

"You're f-freakin' me out," she says and takes another step back.

""No, Tee, don't leave," I say. She freezes. "You want the truth?" _What the hell am I doing? _"Where I came from, you're my best friend. We've been best friends for three years. We joined Glee club together, and we won Sectionals just a few weeks ago. We shared our first kiss three weeks before that, although we haven't kissed again since then. I think I'm in love with you even though I'm too scared to tell you that. And then I made a really stupid wish that I had never been born, so everyone's lives would be easier, and now I'm here in this world where nothing turned out the way I expected it to. My parents are divorced, my mom is dead, my brother is insane, and you – you're sad. And it's killing me, and all I want is to get back to that place I left."

Tina had taken several more steps back while I was talking, looking scared. Not that I blame her, because I'm well aware that what I just told her is insanity, in every definition. I'm on my last thread, just hoping that somehow she will remember. That I can do something to make things right again. I reach out for her hopefully and she shoves my arm away.

"S-s-stay away f-from me, asshole," she says and turns on her heel.

"Your stutter is fake," I yell. I'm not sure what possessed me to do it, but she stops with her hand on the doorknob. "You made it up in the sixth grade, because you had to give a speech on the Missouri Compromise and you were shy."

She doesn't turn back to me, but she doesn't start walking again either. "I d-don't know what you m-m-mean," she says blankly and then leaves the room.

"Tina, please." In a panic, I hurry after her and into the hall, catching up to her and grabbing her arm. She lets out a short scream that seems a bit melodramatic for my light grip on her. I release her, and when I do I see something on my palm. Red. Warm red liquid smeared against my hand, that I must have picked up when I'd grabbed her, grabbed that black arm warmer that's covering her forearm. "Oh God Tina, no," I plead, staring in horror at my bloody hand.

Tina pulls her arm against her chest defensively, her face angry and her eyes afraid. Without another word, she turns and runs for the school doors, and I can hear her crying echoing back along the hallway.

For several minutes I can only stare at my hand. Tina's blood. In all our years of friendship, I've seen her bleed before. Paper cuts, scraped knees, that time she'd cut her hand when she'd been thrown into the dumpster. But this feels entirely different. Because even if she didn't say where it came from, I know. I'm not completely naïve to what some people do when they're depressed. She did this to herself.

In this world without me, Tina is so upset that she'll hurt herself. She doesn't have me to confide in and to cheer her up. She's just the girl with the stutter who no one will be friends with, who gets slushied and tossed in dumpsters without anyone to help her clean off. She never had someone to convince her to join Glee club, which give her so much confidence, or that best friend who makes her feel safe enough to give up her stutter. She's not better off without me.

Just like my dad isn't. And my brother isn't. And my mom isn't.

Before I can consider this line of thought any further, my hand beneath the blood begins to fade out again. And my heart stops, because this time I can tell it's not coming back.


	7. In the End, We All Fade Into the Light

AN: I am ashamed at the abysmal shortness of this chapter compared to the others. And I apologize for that in advance.

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Chapter 7 – In the End, We All Fade Into the Light

_Flying_ doesn't even describe the speeds I'm pushing right now. There's no specific destination in my journey, I'm just going. Everywhere. I can only see a vague outline of my right arm when it swings forward, pumping me onward, which only propels me to go faster. My left hand and both of my feet are starting to get hazy, too. I don't have much more time.

"Patches!" I've been yelling this every few yards. I have no idea where he's at but I know I need to find him. He's the one who brought me here, he can take me back. I don't know how, but he can do it. He's got to. He can't just leave me in this place without the chance to make things right. If only I can find him in time.

This was a mistake. This whole wishing I'd never been born thing was a huge mistake. Colossal. I thought I'd be making everyone's lives easier if I went away, but I didn't. Somehow I just made it worse. I still don't understand how my presence can make such a drastic difference in people's lives, but it does, and I'm never going to take that for granted again.

That is if I can get back, of course.

I charge up toward Main Street, still calling for Patches. I go to every place I think he could be, backtracking everywhere I've gone over the last three days. My family's old house, my dad's apartment, the resting home where Jack is, to the cemetery. I even run up to the hospital, just in case. Nothing. Liquor store? Still nothing.

By this time, I'm stumbling. My legs are aching from running so much, on top of the killer bruises from my landing in the dumpster, and I can barely breathe, let alone summon up the air to yell. It seems like only half of the people I'm passing on the sidewalk actually take the time to pay any attention to the crazy kid running down the street, shouting. Most of them keep going like they don't even see me. My torso is beginning to turn translucent as well.

I need to go back. I have to get back home. I can't leave my family, Tina, in this world. I can't just fade out with the knowledge that I've thrown everyone I care about into this place where none of them are happy. My dad is alone and miserable, my mom is dead, my brother is _worse_ than dead, and Tina… oh God, Tina. If she keeps up this life, doing what she's doing and going through what everyone is putting her through, she won't be alive much longer either. As wrong as it might be, considering they're my family and all, that thought terrifies me worse than anything else I've come across in this world.

It's not fair that one person can ruin so many lives. It's not fair that just because I was feeling a little picked on, a little set apart, everyone else has to suffer. I never meant to hurt them; I only wanted to do what's best for everyone. And now what's best for everyone is me getting home.

I don't know how I could ever think people would want me gone. Doesn't my dad always tell me how proud he is of me? How much he respects the way our family came together over my accident? How much he loves that bond we formed once he got me interested in music?

Doesn't my mom always say that she's so glad I'm strong enough to overcome everything? That I'm what inspires her to keep going every time things get rough?

And hadn't Jack told me time and again that his change in plans really had nothing to do with me? That after he met his wife, he gave up on baseball so he wouldn't be out touring the country all the time for games? That he took the job because he wanted to stay home and care for her and their kids?

And Tina… It hurts to think about how much of a difference I'd made on her. I know that before we were friends she kept to herself, and she didn't really have anyone. But I had thought that without me she might have found someone else, another person who'd be willing to look past her stutter. Someone else to give her confidence and help her overcome her fear and teach her to open up. Mercedes maybe, or Kurt. But of course, we'd only really met them after we'd joined Glee.

In this world, Glee hadn't lasted. Tina had never even known that performance thrill she loves so much now. I hadn't been there for Finn to rescue me from the porta-potty and decide he wanted to come back to Glee. I'd never recruited the jazz band for our accompaniment. We'd never fought through it and convinced Mr. Schue to come back too.

Finn and Puck and Matt and Mike would have stayed with football and gone back to tormenting my friends again. Quinn and Brittany and Santana would still be spreading vicious rumors about people, namely about Rachel and Tina. There is no Glee club to have to accommodate me, so there's no one to appreciate the ease of not having to deal with a wheelchair.

"Patches!" My voice sounds distant even to me. Panic makes my throat close up. _Think, Artie, where else could he be_? I pick up my pace as I think of the one place I haven't checked yet. Of course, the place where I met him for the first time. Where he moved me from my world to this one. The place where this all started.

The library.

I skid to a stop outside the stairs, my eyes searching for the brown heap. "Patches, where are you?" I scan over every inch of the stairs for some hint, checking in the shaded area beneath the banisters and in the corners where the stairs touch the building. I even go into the library, barreling up and down aisles of books in case he came in to escape the cold. He's not here.

Running back outside, I look around hopefully. There's a woman walking toward me and I step out in front of her, blocking her way. "I'm sorry, ma'am but have you seen the old man that sleeps here?" She doesn't even blink and walks straight through me, as if I wasn't there at all. There are no words to describe what it feels like when someone walks _through_ you.

Gasping and shaking, I stagger closer to the library, out of the middle of the sidewalk and the path of other people as I watch the woman walk away. I don't exist to the people in this world either. My three days is up. It's too late. I'm too late.

My legs give out underneath me and I fall to my knees on the sidewalk. I wrap my arms around myself, holding onto the sensation of feeling. My whole body feels tingly, like when you lay with your arms above your head and it makes them fall asleep, except it's everywhere. I bow my head, fighting against the fear and hopelessness. Is this really how it's going to end?

No. It can't end like this. There's no way I went through all of this just to give up now. My whole life has been about overcoming problems. I've been through hell and back these last three days, and I am not going to just step aside and let things end this way. Artie Abrams does _not_ just give up.

"Patches, get back here and fix this!" I'm screaming pointlessly into the air, still kneeling at the steps of the library, filled with a sort of righteous indignation. "You're the one that started this whole mess, and you've got to fix it. You're the one that tricked me into this, turning my words around on me. Were you trying to make a point? If so, I get it. I've learned my lesson. You win. I was wrong."

My voice catches in my throat and I feel my anger seeping out, instantly replaced by the same original fear. I can barely see the misty whiteness that's the remainder of my body.

"I was wrong," I say again, much quieter now. I know no one is listening to me now. This is for me. "I thought everyone would be happier without me but I was wrong. They aren't, I can see that now. And now I need to get back and make everything right. I need to keep my family strong and together, and I need to protect Tina and be that friend for her. They need me. And I need them too."

It's started snowing again, and I watch the glittering flakes pass through my skin and land on the sidewalk. In a disturbing way, it's sort of beautiful. I blink in surprise when I see a water droplet hit the sidewalk as well, and I realize I'm crying.

"Please." I can't summon up more than a whisper, can't even bear to lift my head away from watching the snowflakes disappear against the sidewalk, as I plead. Beg. "Please, I will do anything. _Anything_. Patches, God, whoever is up there listening, I don't care who I'm talking to but please, just let me fix things. I'm sorry, and I was wrong, but I will do anything I can to make it right again. Just send me home. Please."

The snow is falling heavier now, actually sticking to the sidewalk, and I watch as it fills the ground beneath my bent legs. For some reason I can finally feel the cold. It's sinking through me and I can't help but shiver. Although I'm not sure whether the shiver is because of the cold or from the realization that this is where it's all going to end.

I'm not going to see my family again. I'm never going to have another impromptu karaoke session with my dad at the piano in the living room. I'm not going to constantly have to brush away my worrisome mom, while I'm secretly smiling about how much she cares. I'm not going to spend another afternoon playing catch with Jack and his step-son. I'm not going to meet up with Tina to walk to school together again. I'm not going to feel those fluttery feelings when she smiles at me or hugs me or her hand brushes mine. I'm never going to get to ask her on a second date and find out if we really do have something.

"I'm so sorry." I'm not sure who I'm apologizing to; God, my parents, my brother, Tina, myself. No one. Everyone.

"Artie!"

The familiar voice makes me look up in surprise. It can't be, can it? I make to stand up, but just as I'm starting to get up I feel something collide with the back of my shoulder. It must have been the world's fastest and hardest snowball, judging by the explosion of snow that blasts over my shoulder, but it's enough to knock me clean off balance. I take a step to steady myself but my foot lands on a patch of ice. In a weird jerking sensation, I feel my legs slide out from underneath me and I pitch forward.

From behind me, I can hear an insane burst of laughter. I shout in alarm as I watch the ground coming closer. When I try to lift my arms to protect my head they won't move, and when I look down it's because I can't see them at all anymore. My last panicked thought is that it's too late and then my face meets the concrete.


	8. Every Time a Bell Rings

AN: Wow, final chapter. I won't put too much chatter up here, just want to thank everyone again for their support. Hopefully I'll get the chance to delve into some more ArTina angst with some of my fics that are in the workshops right now. More fluff is always on the way. Title of this chapter comes from the closing lines of "It's A Wonderful Life." If you still haven't seen the movie, go watch it - like _now_. It's amazing. Uh... oh yeah and

Happy Christmas Eve!

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Chapter 8 – Every Time a Bell Rings…

My head is killing me. Oh God, I've really got to stop hitting my head. This is only like what, the sixth time in four days? My whole upper body is still aching from being pummeled by Jack, my black eye from the hockey player is stinging, and my right hand is still throbbing from hitting him back. This sucks.

Not to mention it's freezing cold. What am I doing, laying in a puddle? Oh no, that's right, it's snowing. I can feel my whole body quivering with the cold and even though I want to wrap my arms around myself for warmth, I can't get them to move. Oh right, because they vanished. Why can't I stop existing faster and be done with it? This really, really sucks.

"Artie!"

Who the – That can't be. I hear hurried footsteps and then someone grabs my shoulder, rolling me over onto my back. The motion makes my head spin and I groan. There's a faint gasp from above my head, not that I can open my eyes to find out what it is. They feel too heavy. Maybe they're vanishing too.

There's a pressure against my forehead and I wince, reflexively trying to pull away. "Hold still." The hand gripping my shoulder tightens, and unfortunately so does the pressure on the tender spot of my head. What the hell is going on? Who is this person that can see me? I'm vanishing, I couldn't even see myself. Patches? No, definitely not Patches. Although I can smell scotch somewhere nearby, I think.

"Artie, are you okay?"

Wait a minute, I know that voice. But what is she doing here? She doesn't remember me. She hates me. Why is she here trying to help me then? Did she remember? Did telling her everything actually work?

"Artie, answer me, please."

She sounds scared. Why? Oh, right, I'm like a ninety-nine percent invisible person who's just made her remember everything about a life she's lost out on, and who's also apparently just bashed his brains in on the sidewalk again, going by the way my head feels. Ow, I really wish she'd stop pushing on that.

"Artie?" The hand on my shoulder lets go. I hear a rustling of fabric and then a plasticy click, and then the almost musical tone of phone buttons being pushed.

"Tee?"

"Oh thank God." The buttons stop and I feel the hand touching my cheek now. "Artie, are you okay?"

"What're you doin' here?" I ask blearily, a little annoyed by how unresponsive my vocal cords are being.

"When I saw you weren't heading for home I followed you," Tina says in a rush and she sounds less worried than before. "I was worried about you. A good thing too after I saw you biff it."

"He threw a snowball at me," I grumble in annoyance. I swear to God, if I ever find that stupid barking homeless nutter, I'm going to punch him.

"What? No one threw a snowball at you. Your chair slipped on the ice and you fell."

"My chair?" I haven't used my chair in three days. I'm not paralyzed anymore. Why would I… Why don't my legs hurt anymore? They were burning earlier, from all that running, and then those bruises from hitting the dumpster. Why can't I feel that? Am I…?

Groaning, I force my eyes open and instantly shut them again as the light burns into my eyes. More slowly this time, I pry them open to a squint and find myself staring up at a swirl of gray. A really blurry, indistinct swirl of gray.

"Oh, here." A hand appears in my line of vision and I feel my glasses being pushed onto my face. There's a white line scratched into one of the lens and little droplets of water across them, but suddenly I can see again. And when I follow the line of the arm, I can see a curtain of black and blue hiding the face of the person bending over me.

"Tina!" I exclaim and I throw my arms around her. The abruptness of the hug catches her off guard and she falls onto me with an _umph_, but I don't care. Because this is my Tina, the Tina from my world where people are alive and happy. Where I'm alive.

"Artie, are you okay?" Tina asks hesitantly and slowly pries herself out of my hug. She's looking worried when she examines my face. Probably because I have a ridiculous grin on my face.

"I'm fantastic," I say, and push myself up into a sitting position. The sleeves of her hoodie are a little too short on me and I can feel the cold on my wrists between the end of the sleeves and the tops of my gloves. My legs are twisted awkwardly below me, and just beyond my sock-clad feet is my chair, parked at an angle over a patch of ice.

And not a single part of me is invisible.

Tina is still looking at me suspiciously but she goes to retrieve my chair. When she's got it next to me, she helps me pull myself up into it and then goes back to checking my face anxiously. "Alright, your forehead's stopped bleeding, but we should probably get you home," she says, pushing against the lump on my forehead again. "You're acting weird, I think you might have given yourself a concussion when you fell."

"I don't have a concussion," I argue, still beaming. Tina just nods and goes around behind my chair, pushing me in the direction of home. "And I didn't fall. I was pushed."

"No, I was watching and no one pushed you," Tina says firmly and I can hear the concern in her voice but I'm too excited to care. Because warmth is rushing back into me as I realize what's going on. I'm home.

"It was Patches," I explain in a rush, tilting my head back to look up at Tina while I'm talking.

"The homeless guy that barks at people?" she asks in confusion and I see her glance back over her shoulder anxiously.

"Yeah, I was wishing I'd never been born, and then he said he could do it and he pushed me and I fell. And then when I woke up, I really was in this different world where I didn't exist."

"Okay, Artie," Tina says indulgently but she starts walking faster.

"It was an awful place there, Tee, oh my God," I continue, ignoring her expression. This is Tina, and she always understands me. "My brother had been in the accident instead of me, and he got brain damaged and my dad was all bitter and angry about it, and Mom was dead because she felt too guilty about it. And then you, you were so sad and you never joined glee and you –" I falter, looking down at my gloved hand, checking for some remnant of the blood that was there but it's gone.

"You were so miserable and I couldn't take it anymore and I knew I had to find a way to come back. I ran all over the place – I wasn't paralyzed there, because I didn't exist, see – trying to find Patches but I couldn't find him anywhere. And I was vanishing, because my spirit was dying out and stopping existing. But I just kept begging to come home, and then he threw a snowball at me, and I fell and hit my head again and woke up with you here. And I'm _back_."

Tina looks really concerned now as we turn onto my street. "Artie, I think you've been out in the cold too long," she says, touching a hand to my cheek. Her hand feels really warm against my skin and it sends a thrill through my body.

"I know you think I'm crazy, Tee, but I'm not," I insist, reaching up to put my hand over the one she has on my face. "I've spent the last three days in that completely hellish place because I thought that everyone would be better off without me, but they weren't."

"Of course not," Tina says and even though she still looks nervous, there's something more meaningful in her gaze when she glances down at me. "How could you think we'd be better off without you, Artie? You're my best friend, I would be miserable without you."

"You were, it was so terrible," I say, and I can feel my chest tightening thinking about it. "There was no glee club, and you were still shy and scared and you stuttered," I see something like guilt on Tina's face at this but ignore it – the stutter argument is long over, "but you were so alone and you were so angry and hurt and you wouldn't let anyone get near you. It was a thousand times worse than how withdrawn you were when we met."

Tina smirks a little. "Well I don't think I'd be _quite_ that bad, but you definitely have made my life much better."

"And you make mine better too, Tee," I say. I reach down for my wheels and roll myself forward a bit before turning back to face her. Tina looks surprised by this and barely stops in time to avoid falling on me. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Tee, and I don't want to keep putting this off any longer just because I'm scared." I swallow hard and summon on all the excitement I can feel in my chest to give me strength. "I want a second date, Tina. Will you go with me to the Winter Ball?"

For a moment Tina just gapes at me. Doubt is creeping into me – the guy in a wheelchair just asked a girl to a dance, _what the hell_? – but I try to keep myself positive. If there's one thing the last three days taught me is that the littlest things can make a drastic difference, and if one brave attempt at being like a normal teenager is what will tell me if Tina and I can really have a relationship, then I'm going to throw all cautions to the wind.

A smile breaks out on Tina's face and she bends over to hug me. I cling to her, breathing in the smell of her and memorizing the touch of her hair on my cheek and her hands against my back. This isn't something I will ever give up again. When she pulls back, she kisses me on the cheek before straightening up. "Let's make a deal, if you can actually remember asking me this when you recover from this head injury, I'll go," she says, still smiling.

"Promise?" I ask, holding out my hand.

Tina laughs. "Promise," she agrees, shaking my offered hand. "Now let's get you home before I have to take you to the hospital. You're still covered in slushie and if we don't get you cleaned up soon you'll get hypothermic."

We make it the rest of the way to my house in quiet, me still brimming with happiness over today's victories. I'm home, where everything is right and everyone is alive and happy, and I've finally been able to ask Tina out again. I'm pretty sure this is the best day ever.

My parents aren't home when we get there, thankfully or they'd both be freaking out, and Tina pushes me into the bathroom to get cleaned up. She originally told me to take a shower to warm up, but then decided that my "brain injury" meant it probably wasn't safe to leave me alone. Instead she helps me wash off all the slushie that had frozen to my skin and bandages the nasty scrape on my forehead from hitting the sidewalk twice (she's still firmly insisting it was only once).

After this is finished, she goes into the kitchen to make us both a warm drink (after stealing a sweater out of my closet because the hoodie of hers I was wearing is now cold and wet) and sends me in to get changed into something warm. I'm just finishing changing my clothes, pulling on a pair of warm socks because when I touch my feet they feel pretty unnaturally cold, when I notice something sticking out of the pocket of the jeans I'd just taken off. Curious, I roll over and pull it out.

It's a pair of fingerless gloves, like the kind I'm wearing, except they're white. A scrap of paper flutters out when I tug them out of the pocket, slightly yellow and wrinkled. I quickly read the handwritten note.

_Merry Christmas_

I frown in confusion. Thinking there's got to be more, I flip the paper over, catching a distinct whiff of alcohol. When I see the single sentence on the other side, I grin.

_Told ya so, kid_

"Thanks, Patches," I say, laughing. I set the note back on the bed and then my hand hesitates for a moment. My eyes linger on the white gloves. They are completely impractical and illogical, since white only stays white for so long when it's constantly coming in contact with dirty chair wheels, but maybe just this one time…

Smiling, I tug off my yellow gloves and toss them onto the bed. I pick up the white gloves to put them on and as I do something small and gold falls out into my lap. Lying gently between my thighs is a small Christmas bell. As I pick it up I hear the bright, musical jingle and something in my heart jumps.

Because that sound makes me pretty sure that something good just happened.

"Artie, are you okay in there?" Tina asks from outside the door.

"Yeah, I'm coming," I say and I stow the bell in my pocket before pulling the gloves the rest of the way on and rolling to the door. Tina breaths an audible sigh of relief when I come out and she pushes me into the living room, where she already has two mugs of hot chocolate waiting on the coffee table. I drag myself out of my chair and onto the couch, and then Tina sits down beside me, draping a blanket over both of us.

"We need to keep you awake, because I'm still not sure you don't have a concussion," Tina informs me, to which I just roll my eyes. "So here," she hands me my cocoa, which feels pleasantly warm on my cold hands, and then she reaches for the remote.

"What're we watching?" I ask when she turns on the television and the DVD player.

Tina smiles and settles herself more comfortably on the couch, picking up her own cocoa. "Your hypothermic ramblings reminded me of my favorite Christmas movie," she admits and then points at the screen. I just laugh when I see the title that pops up on the screen.

"_It's a Wonderful Life,_" I read and laugh. "Yeah," I agree, looking over at her curled up next to me, "it most definitely is."


End file.
